


The Internal Infernal Outbreak

by scoured



Category: The Middleman - Fandom
Genre: Gen, Halloween, Silly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-17
Updated: 2009-11-17
Packaged: 2017-10-03 05:06:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scoured/pseuds/scoured
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Halloween is supposed to be a time for sexy costumes and confrontational spoken word performance art. But when a Middleman-in-training is invited to the party, things are sure to not go according to plan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Internal Infernal Outbreak

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place prior to the Doomsday Armageddon Apocalypse, and contains no spoilers for it.

Wendy Watson was standing in the loft occupied by a group of artists who were equally young, though slightly less photogenic than her roommate and herself. The occasion was a Halloween party, so the room was packed with sexy nurses, sexy librarians, werewolves, and sexy werewolves. Thanks to her job, this was the least weird day she had had in weeks, even with the sexy lobster waving at her from the opposite corner of the room.

Her adorable boyfriend walked across the room towards her, making the evening complete. He was made slightly less adorable by the Lucha Libre mask covering his face, but the drink he handed her balanced it out.

"The punch offerings were Blood Red and Ectoplasm Green. I chose the red, knowing your thirst for blood is unquenchable."

"And that I find the thought of consuming Slimer highly disturbing. Well done," she replied, touching the rim of her plastic cup to Tyler's.

Tyler took a quick survey of the room. "Lacey and Noser still aren't here?"

Wendy shook her head. "No, Lacey wanted to make a late entrance, to assure the largest possible audience. Halloween is the perfect opportunity for confrontational spoken-word performance art, you know."

Tyler nodded, as though this were a statement as obvious as "Romero's zombies are a potent critique of the excesses and prejudices of American culture."

At that moment, Noser strolled through the doorway wearing a t-shirt, jeans and his guitar, and strummed a chord loud enough to silence the room, while Wendy quickly cut the power on the stereo. This was Lacey's cue, as she entered to face her audience wearing a white rat costume covered in fake blood. Her performance was impassioned, and she made wide gestures using the large claws at the tips of her rodent digits.

When her piece was finished Lacey received a round of light applause and the party resumed. She strode triumphantly to where Wendy and Tyler had been watching with Noser.

"Well?" Lacey asked, when she reached the group.

"Awesome!" Wendy responded. "Hard-hitting and...visceral."

"Totally," Tyler agreed. "Though I'm still a little unclear on the zombie rat part."

Lacey looked shocked. "I'm not a zombie rat! I am the sins of animal testing inflicting its damage on the soul of our society! Didn't you hear my piece?"

"I did," he tried to assure her. "And it was great; I just got a little confused in the middle, I guess."

Wendy placed a hand on her best friend's shoulder and tried to explain. "I think your dramatic entrance was a little late, Lace. The Blood Red and Ectoplasm Green punch has been circulating pretty hardcore." She made a gesture to point out a half-clothed group scribbling on pieces of paper and passing them around a table.

Lacey gasped. "They're playing Strip Exquisite Corpse?! That never happens until everyone's really wasted!"

Wendy could tell Lacey's face had settled into full-on pout mode behind the hideous bloody rat fangs. "Hey, don't worry about it," she said. "It was still a kick ass performance - and I'm sure I'm not the only one in the room who's going to have nightmares in which I reap my much-deserved punishment for my tacit support of the laboratory-industrial complex."

"Really? Thanks, Dub Dub, that means a lot. I'm already making plans for next year -"

Lacey's triumphant announcement, complete with a triumphant fist-in-the-air maneuver, was interrupted by a piercing scream. All eyes in the room turned to the source of the disturbance - a girl who had been talking to Mohawk Mitch, the party's host, when his head had started making a 360-degree turn on his shoulders.

Before Wendy could do anything - or decide what she _could_ do - her Middlewatch went off. She decided to take the call, as the surrounding partygoers were distracted by the eminently weird spectacle in front of them. The Middleman's voice boomed at her, "We need you to report to the agency immediately - the H.E.Y.D.A.R. has picked up a spike in omega-naught goetiacon particles in the warehouse district, which could manifest itself in -"

"Full-on Linda Blair-style histrionics? Heads spinning on the axis, shouting expletives like a sailor with Tourette's syndrome?" Wendy interrupted.

"That's uncanny, Dubbie! And highly specific."

"I am on the scene, boss."

He beamed at her, pride evident in his voice. "I'm impressed with your initiative! Though I have concerns as well, I don't want you to get in over your head. You are still a Middleman-in-training, you know. But we can discuss that later. Do you need backup, or do you have the situation under control?"

Mitch chose this moment to projectile vomit green goo, spraying the entire party, including Wendy. As she did her best to wipe the substance out of her hair she said, "I think I could go for some backup."

***

The Middleman arrived at the loft in his standard Eisenhower jacket ensemble; a Halloween party was one of the few places where this outfit looked completely normal. It had only been a few minutes since Wendy had spoken to him, but the room had quickly devolved into an even more chaotic state - five more partygoers had started exhibiting possession-like symptoms, and the others were slumped, quivering in terror, around the room, while furniture flew around the room and blasphemic screams echoed through the air.

"Pazuzu's playground! I thought you had this under control, Dubbie!"

Wendy responded in a low tone of voice. "I've contained the area - nobody's left since the outbreak started. But my hands are sorta tied by the constraints of not wanting my friends to know I'm a superhero sidekick."

Before they could continue, Lacey, Noser and Tyler approached them. "Hiii, Wendy's boss," Lacey drawled, her animal attraction to the Middleman undeterred even by the ongoing demonic apocalypse.

"Good evening, Lacey. It's a pleasure to see you, as always."

As they spoke, a potter's wheel swept by on a dangerously low circuit of the room, and the group made a synchronized dive for the floor.

"I must compliment you on your costume," he continued as if nothing unusual had just happened. "I've never seen the sins of animal testing inflicting its damage on the soul of our society depicted with such depth. Even on such a traditionally frivolous holiday, you work for the greater good."

Lacey beamed at the compliment.

The Middleman turned to shake hands with Noser. "Mr. Noser, you chose to eschew the costume tradition?"

Noser shook his head. "Nah, Wendy's boss, I'm The Band."

"Oh, obviously. I'm sorry for the misunderstanding." His attention next shifted to Tyler. "And I'm guessing this is Mr. Ford; the wrestling garb is an interesting choice."

"I'm owning some pain tonight," Tyler explained. The Middleman and Noser nodded at him in manly understanding.

Wendy decided to cut in. "Look, boss, it's great that you were able to stop by -"

"I was in the neighborhood doing some work for a client, and I remembered you had invited me," he replied, looking very pleased with this alibi.

"Could we speak in private?" Wendy asked, and led him to the kitchen, which was currently occupied only by the remains of the snacks and punch and a possessed girl Wendy recognized vaguely as a printmaker who had started art school a couple of years after Lacey and herself. The girl was jabbering in reversed Latin and rocking back and forth.

The Middleman began the conversation. "You should have mentioned that your friends were here with you, Dubbie. Our Federal Trade Commission badges aren't going to do us any good here."

"I know!" Wendy concurred. "It's problematic - we're just going to have to do this as ourselves, but incognito. I have a theory on what's going on here. Have you noticed that the victims seem like they're ill? Like they're not nearly so interested in collecting our souls for Satan as they are with how much their tummies hurt - they look miserable, and they're not violent. I think - "

Suddenly a blender on the counter above the printmaker turned on, rising menacingly off the counter and spewing green punch and ice into the air. Revolving slowly for a moment it seemed to be readying itself for a telekinetic charge.

"Galloping ghosts! Hit the deck!" The Middleman promptly dodged to one side as the blender flew at them but Wendy, having had a little bit too much Blood Red punch, barely reacted as the blender crashed into her skull.

"Oh fu -"

***

"Where am I? How long have I been out?" Wendy mumbled as she regained consciousness. She felt her head, sitting up on a vomit-spattered sofa. As it turned out, she had been out long enough for the others to get the situation well in hand. Art students were wandering out of the loft looking dazed and a little ill, but there were no signs of telekinetic or other supernatural activity.

"Well, Dubbie, you've been out long enough for us to get the situation well in hand," the Middleman said. He was on the floor next to the sofa gingerly holding the hair of a not-so-sexy-werewolf puking into a trashcan. "Hearing the commotion over your... accident, Lacey and Mr. Noser came into the kitchen, at which point Lacey perspicaciously noticed that the containers of fruit punch base were produced by Rusty Nickel Co, a corporation with record of notorious malfeasance in the areas of animal testing and quality control. In light of your own perspicacious observations, I immediately suspected - "

"Slimer!" Wendy interrrupted.

"Excuse me?"

"It was the Ectoplasm Green punch, right? I knew there was just something not right with that stuff."

"Indeed. After that it was as simple as getting a sample to Ida, confirming that the punch had been made with actual ectoplasm - doubtless for some evil scheme we have yet to fully unveil - and receiving an antidote in return. Your friends believe it was a particularly virulent case of food poisoning. There will be some cleaning up to do here, but no permanent damage, except for the Slip 'n Slide; I doubt that will ever be used again."

Wendy was thinking this was a pretty big loss - that Slip 'n Slide had seen some good times - but the Middleman interrupted her thoughts. "Are you feeling ready to go yet?"

"And where would we be going now?"

"To the Rusty Nickel factory, of course! This deed is only half done, Dubbie - who knows how many omega-naught goetiacon outbreaks we could be dealing with if we don't roll these oats here and now."

Wendy bowed to the inevitable. "A Middleman's work is never done - gotcha. Can I at least go change my clothes first?"

Her boss nodded. "If you insist, but I think the costume is festive. I especially like the little booties," he smirked.

"Save it. The Robin outfit seemed cute when I picked it out - a little joke with myself if you know what I mean - but it kind of loses its luster when I'm doing actual sidekicking."

"I would imagine any outfit loses its appeal after being doused with ectoplasmic vomit." He looked at the sickly werewolf, helping him stagger to his feet. The werewolf mumbled some kind of thanks and stumbled away. "Shall we make our excuses, then ride off to save the day?"

And that is what they did.


End file.
